a promise fulfilled
by inkedinserendipity
Summary: There would be a great speech. There would be history made. And finally, there would be a promise fulfilled. One-shot, non-slash. Set ten years after the final battle.


For once, Mustang's office was dead quiet. Fuery, Breda, Havoc and Falman were holed up in a side room making themselves presentable while Mustang prepared himself.

At least, that was what was supposed to be happening.

"Sir," Hawkeye saluted, closing the door crisply behind herself.

"Riza," Mustang sighed exasperatedly, turning from the window to face her. "God above, we're _married._ You could call me by my name."

"Does Roy, sir, work for you?" she deadpanned back, still holding her salute.

He waved a hand at her to drop the attention. "Just Roy would work even better."

"You know what else would work, sir? If you finished today's paperwork."

"I can't-"

"And the work from yesterday."

"Riza, I'm-"

"And from two days ago. I believe it is still collecting dust in the bottom drawer." She looked at him coolly. "Sir."

"My hand is cramping," Mustang finally managed to get in a word edgewise, whining petulantly.

Hawkeye remained thoroughly unimpressed, but swallowed a grin at her husband's grumpy antics. "From _what_, sir. What have you been doing all morning, _General_, please enlighten me."

Mustang's eyes flitted telling toward the back room, which Hawkeye was ninety percent certain contained a contingent of four giggling subordinates and a pack of cards or three, and maybe a few candy gambles. She hoped they were at least somewhat prepared.

"I should get a break today," he decided, leaning forward as if to rest his head in his hands.

Hawkeye stepped forward to intercept his forehead before it hit his arms. "You should not."

"I should… finish my speech."

"You were supposed to finish that a week ago, sir. This is the most important speech you're ever going to give."

In all honesty, Hawkeye wasn't overly concerned about the state of the speech. Mustang had probably finished editing it the day he'd gotten his sight back ten years ago.

"I have to tweak it," Mustang amended.

She sighed quietly, knowing that (for the third day in a row) Roy was going to remain a useless lump on his commanding chair. "Very well, sir, write your speech. You can't procrastinate on this one, though, half an hour until we leave."

"Oh come on," Mustang muttered, more to amuse Riza than an actual complaint. Hawkeye allowed her lips to quirk up in a small smile before pivoting smartly on her heel and exiting the room. "Half an hour!" she repeated, projecting her voice toward the innocuous door that she knew held Mustang's four wayward officers.

Indeed, Hawkeye was pleased to see, her boys had shaped up in the thirty minutes she'd allotted. When she eased the door open that half an hour later, four pairs of boots clicked rapidly to attention. "At ease," she told them, closing the door firmly behind her.

She swallowed pleasant surprise. The officers that stood in front of her were…crisp, and Riza was impressed despite herself. For once, the blue collar of Havoc's uniform lied neatly under golden braids; Breda's shirt was tucked into his tight belt; the mechanical grease was cleaned meticulously off Fuery's stars; and the creases where Falman would press books to his chest were smoothed down until they were invisible.

"Well done," Riza commented with a rare smile. "Very neat."

And of course, Havoc ruined the moment, falling out of attention and grinning at her. "Took ages to get Breda's shirt as _neat _as it is, Hawkeye. We had to clean quite the unappealing food stains off it."

Breda broke his salute to sock Havoc in the arm. Havoc didn't so much as flinch but grinned easily around an unlit cigarette. "Quit pretending that was an ordeal, Havoc, you had fun," Breda snarled.

"Oh of course," Havoc mock-bowed, turning to face his friend. "Wrestling you out of that shirt was only the best of fun times. Excuse me."

"Havoc enjoyed cleaning Breda up," Falman reported without glancing toward the squabbling pair, hand unwaveringly held at his forehead. "However he had significantly more difficulty smoothing out his own uniform. He does not appear to enjoy being clean."

"Oi – Falman!" Havoc shouted. Falman swallowed a smile. "I do too!"

"No you don't," Fuery pointed out.

"How do you know?"

Fuery arched an eyebrow – a gesture he'd picked up while serving in the South – and it was actually intimidating, not that any of them would admit it. "Four weeks ago you came to my house blasted drunk. My house was not sanitary for five days after. _Sir_."

"Boys," Riza interrupted. Immediately, the four snapped back to attention. "Where is the General?"

The four officers shared a wary glance, then Havoc pointed toward the door they'd hidden behind half an hour ago.

"At ease," she barked, then strode toward the door. "General, why are you not outside?"

"Hawkeye?" Mustang's voice called from the other side of the door.

She forced the door open. Mustang was…completely ready, she noted. But he was facing away from her, staring at his reflection in the mirror, and completely unmoving.

"Why aren't you outside?" she repeated, gentler.

He jumped slightly. She froze. "Sir?" she questioned

"Uh, nothing, Lieutenant."

She walked crisply to his side and stopped half a pace behind him, catching his eyes in the mirror for a brief second before he dropped them again. "Roy, what's wrong?"

Finally, he turned from the mirror to look at her. "Just a case of nerves," he tried to brush it off.

"You called me Lieutenant," she pointed out. His eyes widened as he remembered his slip-up, but she didn't give him time to try and explain. She stepped to his side and waited. He took a deep breath as if to say something then blew it out without explanation. She stayed silent and allowed him time to think.

"What if I fail?"

"You will not," she reassured him. "You are the best for the future of this country. Whatever happens, I will be proud." She hesitated, then added softly, taking his hand, "Maes would be proud."

Roy squeezed his eyes shut. "I know. I hope…I need to protect them."

"And you will," she replied unwaveringly, tipping his chin up to face her. "You will. You have in the past, you are now, and you will when you are leader."

She pulled him in for a quick kiss, then stepped back again. "Ready?"

Mustang flashed her a quick smile, the soft and gentle expression reserved for her and her alone. "Ready, Riza."

The couple stepped out the door, one a half-step behind the other, as per comfortable usual. "General," Havoc greeted. In the minutes Hawkeye had been gone the squad had adopted a formal attitude to match their attire.

"Men," Mustang returned as Hawkeye slid into the ranks of his trusted officers. "I don't need to give a speech to you today. All I will say is thank you. You have been my officers and my friends for many years, and without your support, I would not be here today."

He nodded to each squad member in turn, who nod solemnly back, and the thousand words that didn't need to be said glided easily through the warm office air.

With a whirl of his military-grade cloak, Mustang disappeared through the door, the six officers in perfect step.

"Gods above, what's taking him so long?" Edward groaned, leaning back in his seat and lifting his flesh-and-blood hands to shield his eyes from the glaring sun.

"Patience, Brother," Al sighed long-sufferingly from beside him. As a blatant contrast to his older brother, who was slumped so far in his seat his hips are practically touching the ground, Alphonse was seated neatly within the square of his seat, hands folded in his lap and twiddling his thumbs absently through the force of habit.

Ed scratched his beard irritatedly. "He's probably taking forever just to piss me off."

"Of course," Al conceded sarcastically. "Because the world revolves around you, Brother."

"Darn right it does."

From Ed's other side Winry chimed in. "Don't inflate his head any more, Alphonse Elric."

"Hey!" Ed yelped at the same time Al nodded solemn agreement. "Doesn't need to get much bigger, does it?" Al grinned at her, reaching down to pat his brother's head.

"Again with the short jibes," Ed mumbled, glaring at his brother from between his bangs and blowing them irately from his line of vision.

In truth, Ed was no longer the weedy teenager he'd once been, and was now taller than even his brother. But in the spirit of good humor, the Elric family continued to jab at their tallest member's stature, if only in hope of the occasional explosive reaction.

"Always with the short jokes," Winry told her husband seriously and poked him in the arm. "Besides, you're so far down it's hard to even say them to your face."

With a huff and well-worn eye roll, Edward pulled himself back into his chair, keeping his posture straight for a solid two seconds before slumping halfway down again. "Dumb Mustang," he muttered for the hundredth time. "If this weren't required of the entire military I'd be happily eating at a coffee shop somewhere."

In fact, there were both military personnel and civilians in the crowd. As the official transferal of power from the aging Fuhrer Grumman to the renowned General Mustang, attendance was mandatory for all staff, military and Alchemists alike. But Edward could see more than only fellow State Alchemists in the crowd – he spotted with no great difficulty the Armstrong siblings. The younger Armstrong had thankfully retained his shirt thus far but was happily booming to everyone near him about this momentous occasion. Ross and Brosch were half-chatting and half-cowering away from Armstrong's dangerously overflowing sparkles. Hughes family sat, with an aging Mrs. Hughes and her willowy and strong teenage daughter Elysia, under the protection of Armstrong's bulk. Olivier Armstrong looked far less entertained than her brother, talking briskly with Miles by her side; Scar was bundled in Ishvalan robes to Scar's right, an official emissary between the rebuilding Ishavalan people and the government. Madame Christmas was seated discreetly toward the front of the crowd. The seats around her were overflowing with Mustang's "sisters." On the other side of the field, curtained by a royal entourage, Ling Yao and his royal Consort Lan Fan were surrounded by Xingese colors and banners and innumerable guards.

Edward knew Alphonse was perfectly aware that somewhere behind that curtain sat Mei Chang. After the ceremony he also knew Al would rejoin his girlfriend in the perimeter of the Command Center. He'd teased Alphonse about choosing a more romantic setting, but Al had remained unperturbed and replied that less-than-romantic scenery couldn't upset the stability of his relationship.

Winry sighed at Ed's disgruntled coffee shop comment. "No you wouldn't," Winry told him matter-of-factly. Then her expression brightened. "But Rose did open up a nice shop in Liore, did I tell you about that? It's a nice establishment, brings in good revenue for the town. They're near done reconstructing."

Al wore a fond grin. "Rose has been a good leader for them."

"I know," Winry beamed proudly. "She's the main reason they've gotten back on their feet."

"Good for her," Ed said quietly, sitting up straight again.

With a smooth movement, the doors to the Central building slid open. Quiet slipped over the cloud like a glove, stifling banter and conversation alike.

Thousands of eyes shifted to the to-be Fuhrer and his loyal procession. Colonel Hawkeye led Breda, Havoc, Falman and Fuery to the stepped pyramid. At the top of the incline waited Fuhrer Grumman, who'd spent the past few minutes idly fanning himself with a hand to beat off the hot Amestrian sun. Now he stood to greet his grandson-and-law and successor.

The five soldiers colloquially termed the "Mustang Gang" pivoted with more precision as Ed had ever seen them move to smartly face the amassed crowd. Mustang stepped in front of them, nodded to them once – a small movement from Ed's vantage point a great distance away – then slowly ascended the stairs. The formation of five reformed and followed him in order of rank up the steps, then fanned out behind him at the top.

Keen observers would notice the marginal space left behind Mustang, created almost unconsciously in the clean formation. Fewer still would count the space to fit two people; and very few indeed would realize that the space left to Hawkeye's left and right, behind Mustang, was reserved for the Fullmetal and Soulbound Alchemists.

(Fuhrer Grumman, it seemed, had a lighter sense of humor than his cruel-spirited predecessor.)

With all the formality the two men could muster, Mustang and Grumman shared a nod barely distinguishable to the stilled crowd. Fuhrer Grumman unclasped the Fuhrer's pin from his lapel and fastened it to Mustang's crisply ironed jacket. Then he wordlessly joined his granddaughter behind Mustang.

Mustang waited at parade rest until the retired Fuhrer had reached the back of the formation, then stepped forward to the microphone. He adjusted the microphone, cleared his throat, and began.

"Citizens of Amestris, I thank you all for gathering here today," he said gravely, and seemed to look at each person in their turn, the weight of his gaze settling peacefully on their shoulders, like a wing's feathers. "All of you, civilian and soldier alike, have served your country in countless ways. Your services to your country will be remembered, both from the Promised Day and that day forward. For after all," he allowed himself a small, quiet smile, "what is a ruler without his people?

"Fuhrer Grumman before me was an excellent Fuhrer. I can only hope to fill his shoes in this matter and many others. I also hope, with your support, to create change for the benefit of this nation. First-" Mustang again looked out to the crowd, tracing the reactions of his people with his eyes, "-the holy lands of the Ishvalans will be returned to them, as a gesture of renewed friendship and peace."

Surprise rippled out from the center of the crowd, spreading in growing waves that chattered and whispered among themselves, wondering how and why.

In the crowd, Scar bowed his head in a silent thanks, knowing that even if Mustang would not see it then he would see it later, when his home was returned to him.

Perhaps the Flame Alchemist had finally repaid his debts.

Mustang waited calmly for the reactive ripple to smooth from the crowd. "Second. This country will undergo political reforms. I declare the formation of a Parliament, who will hold the Fuhrer accountable for any and all actions. The members of the Parliament will be the peoples' choice.

"Third, the incoming State Alchemists will be taught under veteran Alchemists to use their powers for the people and only for the people, in a program spearheaded by none other than the Fullmetal Alchemist and his brother, the Soulbound Alchemist."

"You didn't tell me you were coming back to Central too!" Edward hissed at his brother.

Alphonse tried to shrug nonchalantly but beamed all the same. "Mei agreed to stay here in Central with me. So we're going to room with you, Brother, I hope you have space – oof-" Al found himself with an abrupt lack of air as Edward hugged his brother tightly with one arm.

Over them, Mustang continued speaking. "The Alchemists will be required to hold an audience once a month, to hear and assist the people of Amestris. And finally," Mustang took in a deep breath, blew it out, and continued. "I promise you this. I will do my best to protect those below me. In turn, they will protect those below them, until we are all secure in our homeland. I ask for nothing more and nothing less. I will keep this country safe," he vowed, and his voice rang with finality.

The crowd was dead silent for a few moments. Mustang would deny until his dying day the sharp spike of fear that coursed through him in the wake of this telling quiet. But then a distinctly Elric voice whooped once, and a sudden avalanche of cheering and clapping unleashed itself on Mustang's ears. Vaguely, he heard a few voices that sounded suspiciously like Ross, Brosch and Armstrong chanting his name; then those few voices grew to the rest of the stand, then the entire field, and Mustang had to bite back overwhelmed tears. He thought of Maes instead, of the man who'd lived and died for his country, and thanked him.

The cheering only intensified. The contingent of Generals that sat in front of the ceremonial pyramid cheer with differing emotions – some hadn't quite given up their dreams of beating Mustang to the top and clapped with bitterness between their fingers, but most realized that Mustang spoke truth and instead sent up silent congratulation with their palms.

Grumman stepped forward again, withdrawing the ceremonial sword with a deft hand and handed it to the once-General against a background of continued applause. Mustang flinched imperceptibly at the sight of Bradley's sword, sheathed in blood of good men. But Hawkeye stepped to his side, imperceptibly resting a reassuring hand on his wrist. Mustang noticed that she stood a half-step behind him in what was military custom, then decided that he'd already blown about twenty customs out of the park so what was one more? and pulled his wife even to his side. Only then did he take the sword carefully, as if handling a grenade, and placed it in the cover by his side.

Then Grumman stepped back, inclined his head respectfully, and descended the pyramid. As Grumman set foot outside the platform, the crowd roared as they had never done before – from the smallest child to the oldest veteran, they could smell revolution as well as any other, and in their cheers there were prayers for change to come.

The new Fuhrer stood in the face of this, of the dawning of his dreams and ambitions, and smiled.

A few minutes later and the crowds were released. The second Mustang's feet hit the ground he was mobbed by a horde of blue shirts, showered with congratulations, and forced to shake more sweaty hands than he'd ever liked to contemplate. But he took it with customary grace, kissing all proffered children in sight, smiling at his once-competition, and making casual conversation with officers below him, treating each with the respect and dignity he knew they deserved. Of course, Hawkeye watched the crowd silently from the background while simultaneously making polite conversation with her own civil admirers. Breda and Havoc banded together against hundreds of questions, simultaneously shielding the claustrophobic Fuery and people-shy Falman from the oppressive crowds.

Finally, the public dissipated, trickling through the Command Center and out into the bright city streets. But one patient figure remained behind, waving his wife to the café and telling her he'd meet up with her later, telling her he had a promise to fulfill. She smiled understandingly and yelled an enthusiastic congratulations to the new Fuhrer before joining the Armstrong sister in conversation.

"So, congratulations," Edward said casually, sticking his hands in his pockets and strolling up to his new Fuhrer. "You made it."

"I did make it. Very observant, Fullmetal."

"You know it, Bastard," Ed tossed out easily, and it almost sounded like an endearment.

"Always had a way with words, haven't you, Fullmetal?" Mustang smirked.

Where a ten-years-younger Fullmetal would have raged at the insult, Edward just chuckled. "My eloquence knows no bounds. And apparently neither does yours. That was some speech."

"I drew on a bit of inspiration."

"Your speech was pretty original, I'd say."

"What, you mean quasi-revolutionary?" Mustang asked rhetorically, then laughed when Edward nodded without pause.

"I caught one thing you stole – what was it, a leader is nothing without his people?" Ed asked, side-eyeing the new Fuhrer cheekily.

"From a Xingese friend of mine," he conceded gracefully.

Alphonse, who'd waved Winry off, bounded from the stands. "Congratulations, Roy!" Al practically squealed, then gave Mustang a not-very-restrained hug. Mustang smiled easily and hugged back. He'd never quite forgotten how the boy had loved hugs when he'd first gotten his body back – and hadn't lost his love of physical affection even now. (No one would ever comment on the casual back-pats or rough hugs that were commonplace whenever the Elric brothers were in close proximity.)

"Thank you, Alphonse," he replied, releasing the boy. "You've gotten taller since I saw you last."

"It's the Xingese food," Al told him cheerily.

"Of course."

Silence settled over the field. The three men look out at the cleared field, and they are content.

At least, until Ed remembered something. "Hey, Roy, I owe you."

Roy smiled softly. "Yes you do."

"They're in here somewhere," Ed muttered to himself. Behind him, Al grinned at the scene in front of him. "Ah!" Ed exclaimed, and carefully withdrew a handful of coins. "Here you go," he sang, plopping them unceremoniously in Mustang's outstretched palm. "That's 520 cenz. Debt repaid," he checked off an imaginary box. The Alchemist started to turn away, waving his brother along, but then he stopped short.

"Hey, Mustang," he started in a curious tone of voice.

"Yes, Edward?"

"You know, I should really tell Teacher about this. That now we've got a bastard running our country."

"I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear," Mustang asked, cool tone hiding his puzzlement.

Then he had to bury a sudden jolt of anxiety at the shark's grin that streaked across Edward's face. Ed feigned remorse, patting his empty red pockets woefully. "I'm all out of cash to visit her shop," he said mournfully. Then he looked at Mustang as if Revelation itself had dawned above Roy's head. "Hey, you got any cash on you?"

With those words revelation did actually dawn. "Always so forgetful," Roy faux-reprimanded, burrowing around in his pockets for spare change. "How much do you need?"

Edward pretended to tick off fees on his fingers. "Eh, sixteen hundred cenz?" he shrugged

"That much?" Roy yelped. "Absolutely not, get your own cash."

"Oh come on, would you really leave behind a soldier in need?" Ed wheedled, pretending not to see Mustang already drawing the cash from his coat pocket.

Roy decided not to dignify that with an answer. "Here you go," he said gruffly, shoving the small stack of bills into Ed's impatient hand.

"Thanks!" Ed said cheerily, wadding them up and shoving them in the same pocket he'd extracted the 520 cenz from. (Later, Roy would realize that those 520 cenz were the same ones he'd given Edward that day five years ago, that Ed had kept the same pile of coins for a decade.)

"And when am I getting these back?" Mustang asked concernedly.

Ed pretended to think, then socked the Fuhrer on the shoulder. "I want a good Parliament, Roy. Maybe even a spot in it, just so I can indict you for all the bastard-y things you do," he grinned mischievously, ducking Roy's halfhearted retaliation swipe. "Meet you at the opening ceremony, bastard."

"That'll take years," Roy noted.

"Then make it fast," Edward told him remorselessly, waving at him and the loyal Colonel who joined his side. "See you in a few, Fuhrer Bastard!"

And with a whirl of his cloak, bright and red and lively as ever, the Elrics retreated from Central's field.

The next time Edward and Roy would meet in formal dress would be two years from that day. There would be a grand ceremony to mark the choosing of the first Parliamentary representatives. There would be little surprise that Resembool would choose Edward Elric as their representative. There would be a meeting between the representatives and the Fuhrer. There would be great merry-making and feasting and festivities.

There would be a final promise fulfilled.


End file.
